


Study of a Soldier

by Jemisard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-02
Updated: 2010-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:53:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemisard/pseuds/Jemisard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While investigating a case, Sherlock becomes aware that there's large parts of John's past that John doesn't want anyone to know about. Least of all Sherlock himself.</p><p>Contains a non graphic discussion of war atrocities.</p><p>Done for this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html?thread=2664662#t2664662</p>
            </blockquote>





	Study of a Soldier

The  case involved a morally bankrupt lawyer, a murder charge and three angry SAS officers who weren’t talking.

Mycroft had passed the case to Sherlock in the hopes of making it vanish quickly and obliging the need for some kind of investigation into the affair while keeping it all comfortably close to home.

But the case wasn’t what was holding Sherlock’s attention right now. 

Across the room from him, John sat in his armchair, back stiff and totally absorbed in the paper. The act would be more convincing if he would actually read anything on the page, let his eyes move, relax, scan the print, turn the page occasionally.

He had been ‘reading’ the same page for nearly half an hour since Sherlock had come back from his meeting with the soldiers. He knew he had heard the frantic scramble for John to get to his chair and look relaxed and he had noticed the cane skidded across the floor some distance in an attempt to not draw attention to the fact that he was suffering from his psychosomatic pains again.

His phone was on the coffee table, so was his laptop, which was shut, but clearly switched on. He had been doing something on there and wanted it to appear he hadn’t.

“I have another interview tomorrow with the prime suspect,” he drawled, closing his eyes and turning his face to the ceiling again.

He heard John’s hands tighten on the paper. That made him anxious for some reason.

“Do you know what happened yet?”

Of course he did. He knew who had done it and why, but that wasn’t interesting. What was interesting was that John had refused to accompany him after looking at the file. Specifically, and the name of the three SAS men involved. He just didn’t know which of them or why.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm. Yes. I do.”

“Was it Geoffries?”

Geoffries mattered to John in some way. not necessarily a good one, but clearly, there was some kind of connection. “Why?”

John shrugged and neatened his paper again. “Just what I read in the file.”

“Wrong.” Sherlock leapt to his feet. “You’ve been agitated since you saw Geoffries name in the file, you refused to accompany me on my queries. I returned here and find you still agitated and once again in pain, indicating that this Geoffries brings up bad memories of your time in service.” He grabbed a chair and skidded it in front of John, straddling it backwards to face him. “So the question really is, why are you agitated at this case?”

“I’m not agitated,” John ground out. “I don’t like seeing servicemen doing the wrong things and dragging others into it with them.”

“A partial truth. Your involvement is clearly personal, not simply that of a slighted professional and a good, upstanding man. You’ve stood beside me over the remains of a butchered woman without so much as blinking, this should not have such a strong emotional reaction.”

“Leave it, Sherlock,” he said softly.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on. I will find out one way or another, John, it would be easier for you just to tell me yourself.”

John pushed Sherlock’s chair back with one leg, getting up and trying to conceal the fact he was limping again as he walked for the door. “I’m not part of your investigation.”

“Aren’t you?” He watched his flatmate closely. “You’re certainly acting like you are.”

“I’m going to Sarah’s.”

“Sarah’s away until Friday.”

“Then I’m going for a walk. I’d say don’t wait up but I don’t imagine you would have bothered with sleep by then.” He left, stomping unevenly down the stairs.

Sherlock shrugged and plucked his laptop from the coffee table, opening it up and browsing through John’s recent history.

Military blogs. Much like John’s own, veterans and casualties and currently serving soldiers talking about their daily life.

He skimmed them absently, looking for keywords that might jump out, connect them all together, but he couldn’t find anything of any note. Possibly John hadn’t either, which was why he hadn’t bothered to shut down the browser.

He still noted which blogs they were, emailing his phone from the computer with the links. He’d have a better look at them all later and try to work out what it was that had drawn John to those people in particular.

He needed to sit down and reconsider the facts.

He closed down John’s laptop and flung himself onto the couch, pressing his fingertips together and closing his eyes to focus.

 ** Fact ** : John was disturbed by this investigation.

 ** Fact ** : John was not disturbed by most investigations.

 ** Therefore ** : Something about this case was different for him on a personal or professional level.

 ** Fact ** : John directly reference one of the SAS involved, Geoffries.

 ** Therefore ** : John in some way knew or knew of Geoffries before the case was taken.

 ** Inference ** : Geoffries was good candidate for being what had John upset about this case.

He sighed. That didn’t really help a lot. John was a soldier. It was entirely possible he had heard of an SAS operative...

He sat upright, grabbing his own laptop and flinging it open, typing away quickly. Mycroft had given him electronic information on each officer. He just needed to map if Geoffries and John had served in Afghanistan at the same time.

Sitting there, he made timelines for each of the men. He decided to cover all three of his suspects, just in case there were more overlaps of interest that could imply involvement.

He had the service records for the three SAS men. John’s service record he would have to infer from conversation, unless John had a copy of his own service upstairs in his room.

Sherlock headed up to John’s room, letting himself in and looking around. Unlike his own room, this one was immaculate, spartan even. The bed was precisely made, all clothes neatly sorted and ordered, even his laundry hamper was organised into dark and light.

It was what made this so easy for Sherlock. He wandered to the wardrobe, opening it up and pulling out the box of army decorations and papers, rummaging through it until he found the documents of release.

They had a brief overview of his career, army medic, served several terms...

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

 _ That _ he had not expected.

*~*~*

John came back at nearly one in the morning, his limp still heavily pronounced as he walked up the stairs and into the room.

Sherlock was waiting for him. Staring at the door, so that as John walked in, he could catch his eye.

John didn’t say anything, just shut the door to hang up his coat.

“Were you planning on telling me you served in the SAS?”

The way John’s back stiffened, his head lifted, he was shocked that Sherlock knew. “You’ve been going through my belongings,” he accused.

“Yes, I have. Though I began to suspect you had some time to Geoffries much earlier, but now I’m wondering if you served together in Afghanistan. Directly together, I already know that you and he were int he country at the same time.”

“It’s not your business, Sherlock.” John wasn’t looking at him.

“Of course it’s my business, John, you appear to have a personal connection to someone in a case that we’re investigating!”

“No! Not we. You. You are investigating. I told you, I don’t want part of this one.” He flung the door open. “Stay out of my room.”

“John!” He was up and after him. “You know that hiding things from me is pointless. I will deduce your secrets.”

John paused halfway up the stairs and flicked his fingers up at Sherlock. “Deduce that.” And he stormed into his room, slamming the door shut.

“Would you boys keep it down,” Mrs Hudson called from the ground floor.

Sherlock decided to make a tactical retreat for the night, to think and see what other facts he could drag up. John would fell better after he had slept.

And sobered up a bit if the smell of beer was any indication.

*~*~*

Come five that morning, Sherlock felt confident that he had plotted out all the relevant interactions. Andrews and Parkman had served in a unit together for several years. Geoffries, however, was a new comer. He had transferred in a year ago, six months after John was shot through the leg and shoulder.

 ** Fact ** : Geoffries and John had trained together in the SAS at the same time.

 ** Fact ** : They had also deployed to Afghanistan at the same time.

 ** Fact ** : They were repeatedly sent to the same locations at the same time.

 ** Therefore ** : They were in the same unit.

John Watson and Peter Geoffries had served in the same SAS unit and probably gone through some of their training together.

John had outright lied when he said he was edgy about Geoffries based on what he had read.

John Watson, softly spoken, morally upright, crack shot John Watson was ex-SAS.

He had served with one of the prime suspects in this case.

And he had felt it necessary to hide this fact from his best friend.

The door opened and John looked in sheepishly. “Sherlock?”

He turned his head to the side to look at John.

“I’m sorry about last night.”

“It’s all right, I understand that you were emotional and partly inebriated.” He looked back up to the ceiling. “What time is it?”

“Nearly eight. I don’t have work today.”

“Hm.” He must have been thinking for a while longer than he had realised.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes, thank you.” He sat up, swinging his legs around and his feet into his loafers. “You lied to me, John.”

“I know.” The kettle started heating. “I don’t have anything to do with this.”

“But you did serve in the same unit as Peter Geoffries until eighteen months ago.”

There was a silence.

“Yes. I did.”

“You didn’t like him.”

“No.”

Sherlock smiled slightly, until John looked out from the kitchen. “We were very good friends, actually.”

But John had asked if Geoffries had done it. Accusation, or concern?

 ** Fact ** : John hadn’t wanted to see Geoffries or even have his name mentioned around him from the lengths he had gone to avoid this investigation.

 ** Fact ** : He continued to deny a connection between them until confronted with the truth.

 ** Fact ** : John would be aware that Sherlock’s deduction would be unaffected by John’s personal relationship to a suspect.

 ** Therefore ** : John did not want his connection to be know by anyone, especially Sherlock himself.

 ** Fact ** : John did not get letters from any old army comrades.

 ** Fact ** : Or phone calls.

 ** Therefore ** : They had had a falling out.

“Was the fall out over your injuries?”

John didn’t reply, just poured the tea and came out, handing one to Sherlock. He was limping again.

“Are you embarrassed of your connection to him?”

John’s head shook slightly.

“Are you embarrassed of being connected with me in front of him?”

He looked up, genuinely shocked. “No, of course not.”

Sherlock sipped his tea, trying to work out why then.

“Sherlock... I just don’t want anything to do with my old life in the SAS, okay? I’m out. I’m adjusting to civilian life.”

“You shoot people.”

“Only bad ones. Only when they’re trying to hurt you, because you don’t have the sense to stay safe.”

Sherlock smiled slightly, meeting John’s gaze. John smiled back softly.

Wonderful. John thought he’d deflected away from the issue. That would lower his guard. “You should shower, you smell like the bar.”

“Sorry.” He stood up, and his limp had lessened a bit. “Got plans for the day?”

“Mm. Not yet. I might have ask Mycroft for more information on these men.” He didn’t, but it was a good excuse for contacting his brother for  _ other _ information.

“Okay.” John headed for the bathroom.

Sherlock picked up his phone and dialled a dead number, still staring at the doorway as he waited for a pick up.

“I need information. I need John’s service record.”

He hung up his phone, still watching the doorway where John had vanished.

When his phone buzzed, he finally looked away to read the text on it.

 _ What for? M. _

Trust Mycroft to be a pain about it.

 _ I just do. Send it to my email. SH. _

He dropped the phone onto the couch next to him, leaning his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers again, watching the door for a lack of anywhere more interesting.

He needed to orchestrate John and Geoffries meeting. He needed to watch how they both reacted to a surprise meeting, that first honest reaction that they’d both give to seeing one another.

That could be done. He was meant to have another meeting with them this afternoon. He would simply not attend, wait until he was called and drag John along with him under the pretence that they were only meetin with Mycroft.

His phone buzzed.

 _ I thought I was meant to be the one who spied on loved ones. Are your deductive skills not up to unraveling this one, brother? M. _

His email programme chimed, saying he had received one email from an anonymous source.

He glared at it and dropped the waiting attachment into a folder and didn’t open it.

No one accused Sherlock Holmes of not being up to a mystery.

Least of all his big brother.

*~*~*

To further put John at ease, Sherlock announced they were going out for lunch. There was a Greek place that he could eat free at, so he took John down there and eventually agreed to eat one of John’s dolmades to stop him from fretting about how much Sherlock wasn’t eating at the moment.

The case was solved but needed all his wits to pick apart what had happened between Geoffries and John eighteen months ago when John was shot. He was sure that must be it, he wouldn’t have had much contact with others once he was hospitalised.

Why was Geoffries transferred six months later into another unit? Who were the other two men in the unit and what had happened to them?

His phone buzzed. He pulled it out and looked at the message.

 _ Why aren’t you at the meeting? M. _

He sighed and dropped his phone into his pocket. “Come on.”

“What?” John looked up, frowning slightly as Sherlock stood.

“Mycroft wants to see me. I’m not going on my own, I’ll end up doing him physical harm with that umbrella of his.” He pulled his gloves back on while John finished his drink and stood, putting his coat on.

They took a cab over to the office that Mycroft ostensibly claimed as his own and was probably just an empty set of rooms where he sometimes met with people. Not-Anthea was there, she waved them through with barely a glance up from her phone.

Sherlock walked in first, hiding his smug smile that Mycroft had worked perfectly to plan. The three men were in here already.

He spun around and threw himself into the seat and watched for the moment that John and Geoffries saw each other.

It was perfect.

John’s back stiffened. He lifted his chin, almost standing to attention, feet drawing together. His face went stony in the next two seconds, expression dead and locked out, and his right leg trembled as the psychosomatic pain hit him.

But those two seconds before he gained control to shut down told a world of information. Hurt. Anger. Resentment. A senior officer, he didn’t go to salute, he outranked Geoffries. John Watson had a lot of old anger towards Peter Geoffries.

As telling was how Geoffries reacted. He went to stand automatically, not necessarily indicating anything, but the way his hand raised and stopped spoke a volume. He still had respect for John if his instinct was to salute him.

He was shocked. Not really surprising, he hadn’t expected to see him. But after the shock came the really interesting emotion.

Shame.

And then he closed off and stood more slowly. “Watson.”

“Geoffries,” John said quietly.

“Ah, so you do know my associate. John, this is Peter Geoffries, whom you know, Shang Andrews and Desmond Parkman. This is my associate, Doctor John Watson.”

Andrews and Parkman didn’t react much, polite interest and nods.

Geoffries glanced at John’s lower body. There was another smothered flash of shame.

More interesting.

“John, take a seat, won’t you?”

“No, Sherlock, I don’t think I will. I’ll wait outside with Anthea,” John said stiffly, turning and leaving.

The limp was back.

Sherlock looked back to the three men as the door shut. “Frankly, I have limited interest in your activities. I already know which of you did it, I know the other two of you know and have stayed silent to protect a comrade. I don’t care.” He leaned forwards. “I want to know about how Geoffries came to serve in this unit. from anyone, I don’t care whom.”

They all exchanged looks. Parkman broke the silence. “Why... What does it matter?”

“It matters to me. What happened to the rest of your unit, Geoffries?”

“Retired,” he said curtly.

He was lying.

If they were killed in action, he would’ve been proud to say it. “They were probably dishonourably discharged.”

His breath caught.

“Or worse. Tell me, have you always been ashamed of looking at John Watson, or did it only start after he was shot? Was it the fact that you were helpless to stop it or that you  allowed it to happened?”

Geoffries was going redder in the face. “You don’t know anything about it, you sick bastard! You don’t get to ask questions about that, it was eighteen months ago, I was cleared of any misconduct!”

“Shut up, Geoffries,” Parkman hissed, but Sherlock was already smiling.

“Misconduct... The rabbit hole goes ever deeper. John certainly doesn’t believe you were clear of any ‘ _misconduct_ ’ ,” Sherlock purred out.

Geoffries lurched forwards, only to be caught by Parkman and Andrews before he got out of his seat.

“What the hell’s wrong with you,” Parkman snapped. “We’re not here to discuss this bullshit.”

Sherlock stood up and opened the door. “Parkman did it, but probably to protect Andrews and Geoffries from doing it themselves. Do be kind with him. Or not.” He strode past where John sat, to the door and then paused, looking back. “Coming?”

John was red with anger. But he stood and limped after Sherlock silently.

*~*~*

“You had no right!”

John had managed to wait until they were back at 221b Baker Street before rounding on Sherlock. “You had no right to do that me, Sherlock. None at all.”

“You didn’t have to come in.”

“You told me you were meeting with Mycroft. He wasn’t even  _ there _ .”

“Details.” He waved his phone at John to show him the message. “He did tell me to come. I wasn’t to know he wouldn’t turn up.”

“But you knew those men would be there.”

“Yes. Well, I presumed.” He waved his hand. “He shows shame when he looks at you, especially your leg. Well, I assume your leg, given how he reacted when I asked him about the circumstances under which you were shot.”

John was tense again.

“And you’ve started limping again. The pain has been coming and going since this started, but it got much worse after you saw Geoffries in person. He said he was cleared of misconduct, but clearly, you don’t feel that way about it. You’re angry at him still for whatever he did.”

John was silent, jaw tight and watching Sherlock.

“You feel no shame for what happened, but it causes you considerable psychological pain. Not in your shoulder, which means while you were shot twice, it was two different incidents on the same mission. Geoffries didn’t look to your shoulder, which also confirms that he feels no emotional attachment to that injury. You were shot, he is ashamed of that fact, you are angry at him about it. It is possible that he shot you accidentally, that doesn’t account for the two other unit members who have been removed from service-”

“Stop.”

John’s voice was soft but firm. “Just stop. I didn’t want to go back into this. It’s gone. I’m readjusting. It isn’t relevant to the case. Just  _ leave _ it alone, Sherlock.”

John took his computer and his cane and headed for his room.

Sherlock decided to nap until John had finished updating his blog.

*~*~*

He napped for a while, maybe two hours, and then checked John’s blog, but all that was posted was that he thought Sherlock was a bastard and that he didn’t know why he had to dig up everything he could just for the fun of it.

Sherlock lay back to think about it.

He needed data. Facts. Information. He needed to know what happened eighteen months ago.

He grabbed the laptop and started to search.

Afghanistan. Eighteen months ago. Military operations. SAS operations that went bad. Civilian casualties. Two disgraced SAS soldiers. 

And he started to put things together. Two soldiers in prison. Unexplained deaths in custody. Official investigation.

“Have you dug it all up yet?”

He straightened from the laptop, wincing as his back protested the movement. It was dark. John was standing in the doorway in his pajamas and robe, looking worn and haggard, his hair unkempt.

“I believe so. What time is it?”

“Nearly four.”

He cracked his neck and stood, trying to shake warmth back into his legs. “Why are you- Ah. Nightmares.”

John didn’t bother replying and dropped onto the couch, arm across the back.

“No doubt about the incident I’ve been investigating. When one of your unit shot you.”

The hand on the back of the couch went tight.

“I haven’t managed to identify which of the other two did it, but I have no doubt that it was due to your attempting to stop them from interrogating a prisoner.”

“That wasn’t an interrogation,” John hissed. 

“As a doctor, you could not stand by and allow a violation of human rights. And for some reason, one of them shot you. Perhaps as a lesson. Or to stop you from interfering with what they were doing.”

John closed his eyes, breathing heavily. Sherlock slid in close to him on the couch, watching his face.

“But... I have no doubt that you were shot while attempting to defend human rights and individual lives. Because that’s what you are like.”

John still didn’t open his eyes. “I... was the team medic. But unlike a lot, I was a doctor first. We were deployed with another unit to go and subdue insurgents in a village. We took them, but we lost two men and I was shot through the shoulder. The other team medic was killed, so I was out for a two days after I removed the shrapnel.

“When I came to... They were torturing people. For information, they said, but I recognised the injuries on those people. Five young women, two young men had been raped. One boy died from internal damage and infection. They were torturing the men and would rape their daughters, their nieces and granddaughters in front of them.

“Two of my unit and one of the other men with us were involved. I told them I wouldn’t allow it to continue and stood in front of the hostages they were threatening to shoot.

“I was shot in the leg. And the other two useless bastards finally radioed for extraction because shooting on of our own was just too much for them.”

Sherlock was quiet a moment longer. “Geoffries did nothing to stop them. That’s why he was ashamed. You defied them. He did nothing until you were shot.”

John opened his eyes and looked to Sherlock finally. “He should have been court marshaled with them. He did  _ nothing _ .”

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he said softly.

John sighed. “Yes?”

“... why on Earth didn’t you just  _ tell _ me?”

“I didn’t want your pity for poor John and trauma based, psychosomatic injury from where his teammate shot him,” he replied quietly.

Sherlock sighed. “You really can be just as stupid as everyone else sometimes. Now, do you want some tea?”

John looked up, shock fading to gratitude to a small smile of relief. “Yes. Tea would be nice.”

Sherlock smiled and nodded, retreating to the kitchen and starting the kettle boiling.

He pulled out his phone and sent off a quick message to Mycroft.

 _ I didn’t need your document to tell me John Watson is a hero. SH. _


End file.
